


Februwhump Prompt: Branding

by AnaliseGrey



Series: Februwhump Prompts 2019 [3]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: (sort of), Branding, Cognitive Dissonance, Dissociation, Gen, Identity Issues, Pre-Stream (Critical Role), Random Encounters, Starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 13:05:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17725730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnaliseGrey/pseuds/AnaliseGrey
Summary: In the beginning, he’s barely a person.When he runs, he only has enough mind to steal the necklace that will keep him hidden and a coat to ward off the chill. Everything and anything else is unimportant.He doesn’t clearly remember the following weeks.





	Februwhump Prompt: Branding

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers in the end notes for episode 49 and on.

In the beginning, he’s barely a person.

When he runs, he only has enough mind to steal the necklace that will keep him hidden and a coat to ward off the chill. Everything and anything else is unimportant.

He doesn’t clearly remember the following weeks.

It’s a blur of time that he doesn’t like to think about- days bleed, unchanging, one into another, a constant stream of hunger, cold, and barest survival. He doesn’t know where he finds food, or how he doesn’t freeze to death as he crosses the countryside barefoot and barely dressed- only that he does, that he must have, or he wouldn’t be alive now.

He spends most of his time in a fog- it’s not the same as the sucking void of smoke and sparks he was in before, but it’s only slightly less difficult to fight through. He zones out and comes back to himself hours or even days later, unsure of what he was doing in between, knowing he’s somewhere new, or that time has slipped by him while he was unaware. He doesn’t know how he hasn’t been killed yet, set upon by predators or bandits while he’s deep in his mind, but sometimes the smell of smoke lingers, ash smudged on his fingertips, and he wonders-

He doesn’t think to look at his own reflection until a few weeks have gone by, and what he sees is such a shock he avoids any surface that might show him his face after that. There’s only the faintest hint of the boy he remembers from  _ before  _ in his reflection- the eyes are the same, but the face is gaunter, sharper, no longer a child, his hair a wild mess. He can’t reconcile his mental image with the reflection he sees now, and it’s deeply disconcerting.

He stumbles upon a camp one day, seemingly abandoned or temporarily unguarded, and while he knows instinctively it’s a bad idea, his cramping belly won’t let him ignore the smell of meat roasting over the small central fire. He takes a last glance around, and when he doesn’t see anyone, he bolts for the fire pit. He grabs the skewer the hunk of meat is roasting on, and he’s grateful that it’s dampened wood and not metal, or he’d have burned himself badly. He’s just turning to run back to the treeline when a roar goes up nearby, and for a split second, he freezes.

It’s only a second, but that’s all it takes for things to go quickly downhill.

There’s a huge figure, which the readily-visible tusks identify as an orc, moving toward him at an alarming speed. He moves to run, dropping the skewer to the ground in his haste, and comes face-to-face with an elf in leather armor, hands fisted on their hips, head tilted to the side, and smiling. “Well, Bulgan, look what we have here- a thief!”

He’s frozen in place, can’t move, can hardly breathe, and before he can think of how to respond there’s solid blow to the back of his head and everything goes dark.

When he wakes up again, things haven’t exactly improved.

His head throbs in time with his pulse, centered on a spot at the back of his skull. When he reaches up to his head he finds his hands are bound behind him with something that chafes uncomfortably at the skin of his wrists. His ankles are bound as well, and there’s something stuffed into his mouth and tied into place. His eyes snap open, scanning the area around him in a panic.

He’s not far from where he was knocked out; the fire pit is to his left with the meat now back in place on it’s spit, dripping juice into the fire below. He goes still, tensing when he notices the elf again, seated nearby on a fallen log, whittling idly at a small chunk of wood until something tips them off; the elf looks up and grins, rolling to their feet with ease.

“Ah, you’re awake, wonderful. Means we can get this nasty business behind us.” They toss the piece of wood into the flames and pick up a metal stiletto that had been set in the fire before walking over to kneel down next to him.

“You know, stealing is generally frowned upon in polite society.” The elf looks up and over him, nods, and suddenly there are hands on his shoulders, pressing him down to the dirt, his arms pinned under him, and oh, that’s where the orc went.

He struggles, because how can he not? He knows it’s useless, he’s bound hand and foot, but his panic won’t let him stop. The elf tuts and straddles his waist, holding the stiletto in one hand and using the other to pull aside the rags he’s wearing, exposing a bony shoulder and thin chest.

“We’re going to teach you very important lesson about manners, then let you be on your way.”

His eyes widen as he realizes what the elf means to do and shakes his head vehemently, his struggles growing frantic, but the orc’s hold on him keeps him in place and there’s nothing he can do other than watch in horror as the elf lowers the glowing metal to his skin where his chest and shoulder meet. The pain is immediate, maddening, and he screams behind the gag, twisting as much as his bonds and the weight holding him down will allow. After a moment the elf pulls the metal away, and there’s a scorched and crackling blistered line where it’s kissed his skin. The elf stands, places the blade back in the fire.

“Bulgan here wanted to cut your hands off, but I thought that was a bit extreme.” They watch the fire and the stiletto as it turns red again. “Instead, I thought it might be a good lesson to just brand you. Leaves a lasting impression.” They pull the blade from the fire, glowing with heat, and come back over to sit on him again as the orc continues to hold him down. “Be thankful we’re not marking your face.” And with a sharp smile the elf presses the blade crosswise along the top of the first mark. 

He screams again, voice going ragged with sobs as he continues to struggle, though his efforts are weakening; he’s been riding the knife’s edge of starvation for days now, and the exertion combined with the injury is driving him quickly back towards unconsciousness.

The burning metal is pulled away and he gasps for air through his nose, trying not to heave at the smell of burnt meat that hangs heavy in the air. The orc’s hands lift off him and the elf stands, moving aside, but he’s too weak to do more than lay shaking on the ground as his shoulder screams in fiery agony, pulsing in time with his head. He closes his eyes, fighting the nausea and dizziness, the black spots in his vision that want to drag him down. Between one breath and the next, he loses his fight and passes out.

His next rise to consciousness is slower, more sluggish than the last, and if nothing else, more peaceful.

His head feels a little better, but as soon as he tries to move, his shoulder flares with a pain that drives deep and refuses to be assuaged. He’s no longer bound, though there are raw marks at his wrists from where he’d struggled. When he pushes himself up on shaking arms to sit, he looks around and realizes he has no idea where he is. There’s no sign of the camp, but on the ground next to him is a worn leather pouch with a hunk of bread and some coppers inside, and next to that a small metal bottle that has water inside when he checks it. He has a fleeting worry about the safety of the food, but he’s beyond caring- he forces himself to be slow, sipping at the water and only ripping off tiny pieces of the bread so he doesn’t make himself sick. When he’s feeling more stable he gets to his feet with a groan and looks around. Just over a small rise is a road; he doesn’t know where he is, but he has no destination in mind, so that hardly matters. With a firm grip on his new belongings, and the first of many new lessons etched on his skin, he picks a direction, and starts walking.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah.
> 
> When I first set out to write this, I had an entirely different prompt in mind, and about 500 words in, my muse informed me I was wrong, and here we are. This takes place not long after he escapes the asylum- he's no longer Bren, and not yet Caleb, and within the context of this ficlet, I don't think he's really with it enough to consider himself as an individual person with needs and wants beyond survival, let alone worrying about a name. He's just... he's got a lot going on, here.
> 
> I spent the last bit of writing this listening to [Reminiscence, by Olafur Arnalds and Alice Sara Ott](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hffMLTmRe9A). Definitely give it a listen.
> 
> If you want to ask me a question, flail at me, or just say hi, you can find me on tumblr at [Analisegrey](http://analisegrey.tumblr.com/) and on twitter with the same handle.


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